“Have you ever found Max doing anything really dishonorable?” asked Lieutenant Wilde. “All that set of boys are wide-awake, happy-go-lucky fellows, ready for any amount of fun, and often a little too careless of others’ feelings; but I don’t believe one of them would lie, if it were to save himself from being expelled.”
“They must be remarkable boys,” said Mr. Boniface sarcastically.
Irving Wilde turned on him with a frown; then he controlled himself and said quietly,—
“That is just where you lose ground with the boys, Mr. Boniface, by making them feel that you distrust them. Do you remember what the Rugby fellows used to say: ‘It’s no fun to lie to Arnold, for he always believes us.’ There’s a great deal of truth there. Treat boys like honorable gentlemen and, to a great extent, they will become so. Watch them like pickpockets, and they will act accordingly. Boys are quick to see when they are trusted, and nine out of ten of them will do their best to be worthy of the trust. Try and see if it isn’t so, Boniface.” And he beamed on his companion with such hearty good-will that Mr. Boniface was forced to admit the truth of his remark, as far as he himself was concerned.
There were a few moments of silence; then Lieutenant Wilde rose and moved across the room to where his host was sitting. Leaning on the back of his chair, he said, with the genial, off-hand manner that was peculiarly his own,—
“Now, Boniface, take the advice of a friend, and forget all about your best energies. Excuse my speaking so freely; but you asked my opinion, you know. Trust the lads and make them feel that you trust them; like them as well as you can and show them all the liking that you feel. That is the main thing in dealing with boys. And then, if you could only be a little more sociable with them, talk to them at table and when you meet them around the grounds, till you know every single fellow for what he really is; then I promise you that they will do their share towards meeting you. For my part, I’ll have a little talk with Eliot and Howard and two or three more of them, and I hope your trouble will be mostly over.” And he went away, leaving Mr. Boniface to ponder on his words.
CHAPTER V.
WAR IN THE COLOR-GUARD.
It was the hour for afternoon drill. The trumpets had rung out in the quick, tripping arpeggios of assembly and the companies had formed for roll-call, then marched to their places upon the battalion parade-ground. In the centre of the line stood the color-sergeant, Frank Osborn, with his senior corporals at either hand, Leon on his right, on his left Winslow and Smythe, the “fiend” of the second class. Beyond them, to the left and right, stretched the four companies of the battalion, while still farther to the right stood the band.
From the first, Leon had been fascinated by the perfect order and regularity of the battalion drill, where every man and every piece were only well-adjusted parts of the whole, and where any trifling delay or irregularity on the part of a single cadet was enough to mar the work of an entire company. So heartily had he thrown himself into the training that now, after six weeks of it, he was promoted to be one of the ranking color-corporals, and each day proudly took his place beside Frank Osborn, who never looked half so handsome and dashing as when on duty, with the soft, bright folds of the flag drooping beside his dark oval face. And yet, with all his attraction for Leon, the younger boy felt a certain distrust of this brilliant comrade, which prevented their daily association from ever ripening into anything like an intimacy. It was not that he was not always bright and companionable, quick to plan and bold to execute the frolics which seemed to add zest to his school life, and equally ready to take the consequences of his many sins. But, after all, there was a look about the imperious young face, about the proudly arching lips and the restless eyes, that told of his descent from the flower of Southern chivalry, a chivalry which might too easily become hot-tempered and wild, in spite of a firm and resolute control. Leon’s New England training held him aloof from the gay, rollicking fellows who met in Osborn’s room to take counsel how best to shirk the hours of study, and to hold late suppers, after “lights out” had sounded, and the Flemming world was supposed to be sleeping the sleep of the just. Max alone, of all the Arnolds’ friends, was frequently at one of these revels; for with his eager activity, he was always ready for fun, in almost any shape that offered, and was filled with a boyish admiration for Osborn’s lavish generosity and high-handed carelessness of discipline. The consequences of the intimacy were often disastrous to poor Max, for while his friend contrived to emerge unscathed from scrape after scrape, Max was singularly luckless, and was continually finding himself reduced from the rank to which his brilliant scholarship and excellent drill had raised him.